The Cleaner

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The children’s bedroom has all that happy jolly stuff I never had as a kid. Posters of cartoon characters are stapled to the walls; they chase each other with stupid smiles and homosexual gestures. Even the bedspreads can’t just be normal. They too have characters running across them, frozen in a moment of excitement. The clock radio on the small blue desk is in the shape of a clown. The eyes move back and forth, counting the minutes that have passed since the occupants of this room lost their mother. But the clown doesn’t know it. He’s still smiling, his bright red lips almost the same shade as Becky’s, his eyes looking back and forth, back and forth, searching for something he’ll never find. Colorful toys are scattered across the floor. Stuffed teddy bears look like they have been massacred by toy soldiers, their bodies dumped in this battlefield of chaos. Piles of plastic board games are stacked in one corner. One is open on the floor and the pieces inside are strewn over the carpet. A bookcase containing more toys than books is pushed against the wall.

The main colors of the room are blue and light pink. Relaxing colors, or so they believe. They’ve spent thousands of dollars on case studies to prove this. Happy colors mean happy kids. As a kid, I had gray walls in my room. Put a poster up, and I got grounded. Yet look how happy I am. I could have saved those researchers all that money if they’d come to me first.

“You think you last saw him two months ago?” I ask, confirming her guess.

“Yeah. I suppose so.”

“Thought you’d remember a client who was paying two thousand dollars.”

She shrugs. “Go figure. I remember the money more than anything else.”

“What was his name?”

“His name? What’s in a name?”

“Everything,” I say, wondering if she’s trying to quote Shakespeare. I decide I can’t credit her with that intelligence, and chalk it up as a fluke. Still, I find it unsettling.

Could a whore actually be that clever?

She shrugs. “He didn’t tell me.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Just what he wanted.”

“And what was that?”

She tells me. It’s so graphic I nearly blush. “And you gave him that for two grand?”

“Yeah.”

Can’t quite discern if that had been a bargain or not. What I do understand is the similarity between this encounter and the death of Daniela Walker. Same signature.

“Where did he take you?”

“I thought I just explained all that.”

I shake my head. “I mean did he take you back to his house, or to your house, or to a motel room, or what?”

“Oh, that. Well, it was a motel room. We don’t usually go to the john’s house.”

“Can you remember the motel?”

“Some seedy joint across town. The Everblue. Heard of it?”

I nod. Never been there, but driven by it a few times.

“He booked a room while you were there?”

“No. He already had one. We drove straight there and went directly to his room.”

“Was he living there?”

“Huh?”

“Did you see any suitcases? Any extra clothes?”

“No, but I wasn’t looking for any.”

I figure he wasn’t staying there. The Everblue is a dive that charges for rooms by the hour, not overnight, just for people like Becky and her colleagues. Becky seems eager to tell me more now. Before she was defensive, guarded about everything. Now she senses she’s going to make two grand for talking, and after her candid explanation of the perverse sex Calhoun ordered, she has no reason to hold back.

“Where did he pick you up?”

“Same place you did.”

“Anybody else around?”

“Nobody.”

“Pimp?”

“Are you a cop or something?”

It is a question I can see she was tempted to ask immediately. Her greed stopped her then, but now that she has the money, and perhaps a switchblade in her purse to protect it, she can ask whatever she wants.

“Or something.”

“If you’re a cop, this is entrapment.”

Great. A Goddamn scholar. “I’m not a cop.”

She doesn’t look disappointed or relieved at this confession. “Are you going to have sex with me or what?”

“Not sure yet.”

“’Cause I should be charging you extra for these questions.”

“Fine. Two grand for the answers. If I want sex, I’ll pay normal rates.”

She seems happy with this.

“So, did your pimp see him?” I ask.

“I don’t have a pimp.”

“You serious?”

“Yeah. Used to, but he was pretty violent.”

“I thought girls without pimps got hassled by the girls that do have them,” I say, but to be honest I don’t really have any understanding of the pimp-whore world, only what I’ve seen on TV.

“This guy was worse than the girls.”

“So nobody knows you went with him?”

“Just him, me, and God.”

God. Huh. I find it interesting she mentions Him. Like He would take the time to look over a piece of trash like her. Like anybody would take the time. Yet she wears the crucifix around her neck because she is a God-luvin’ Christian. It doesn’t make sense. The good news is she’s just told me that only God and I know she’s here.

“So you got no name at all from him.”

“Listen, honey, nobody gives me names, and those who do are lying. Apart from that, names and faces I forget. It’s the sex I remember, and only then if it’s something out of the ordinary. Which this was.”

“Is there anything you can tell me about him? Type of car? Where he dropped you off? Anything at all that might help?”

“Help what? Why are you looking for this guy?”

“I’d think for two grand, only I should be asking the questions.”

“Whatever.”

“So, can you remember the car?”

“Sort of. It was nice. Late model.”

“That’s pretty detailed.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.”

“You think it was a sports car?”

“No. A sedan. I remember thinking he was going to want me to blow him in the backseat.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“What about the front seat?”

“Does it really matter to you?”

It really doesn’t. “What color car?”

“Can’t remember. It was dark. What I remember most is how the sex was so violent and strange, and afterward he was real nice to me.”

I can imagine. “Did you let him drop you back off at home?”

“Shit, no. I didn’t want a sicko like that knowing where I lived. I got him to drop me off at an apartment complex and waited for him to go before finally going home.”

“How much did he hurt you?”

She shrugs. “I’ve been hurt before.”

“How much?”

“I couldn’t walk home, had to get a taxi. Could hardly walk for three days.”

I know what that’s like. “How bad was it?”

“God, it wasn’t as though he raped me, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Prostitution and rape. Two things that closed-minded people think go hand in hand. Some people think prostitutes even deserve it. Some people think a lot of stupid things. Some even think that raping a prostitute isn’t rape at all, that the only difference is whether you fork out your fifty bucks.

“You’ve experienced the difference, huh?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead just looks at me and uses her hands to fish a cigarette packet from her purse so fluidly that one second her fingers are empty, the next they’re holding on to it.

“You mind?” she asks.

I shrug. Think about how the smoke is only going to help mask the smell that’s coming from a few rooms down. “Go to it.”

I notice her hands are shaking slightly. “He told me if any cops wanted to know about him, I was to keep my mouth shut. Said he’d kill me if I didn’t.”

I can’t figure why he just didn’t kill her anyway. It’s the best way to keep somebody quiet. Maybe he hadn’t reached that point in his life.

“So why are you talking to me?” I ask.

“I’ve got bills to pay.”

Sure, that and the fact that money will always win out over fear, loyalty, truth, or whatever other bullshit shoves its way into a prostitute’s life. She pulls the cigarette from her pack, bites on the end of it, and pulls out a lighter. She’s still silent, just giving her cigarette head. She lets three smoke rings fall from her dry lips.

“Have you got an ashtray anywhere around here?”

“Below your feet. The maid will get it.”

She taps the ash onto the red carpet.

“I keep thinking I’m going to give up one day,” she says, looking at the cigarette, but I bet she’s thinking about the hooking.

“It’ll kill you,” I say.

“Everything will kill you these days.”

She’s so right. “So do you think he was a cop?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Acted like a cop.”

“Acted how?”

“You know. Kind of reserved. Always looking around to see who was watching. Stiff body action. Knew what he was doing. Decisive like.”

“You can tell he’s a cop from that?”

“In my line of work, you get a gut feeling for that kind of thing. When he first pulled up I wasn’t going to go with him. Thought I was going to be arrested for something, though I don’t know what-it’s not like what I’m doing is illegal.”

“It is if you’re not paying your taxes,” I tell her, which is true.

“Yeah, well, anyway, my point is he was a cop. I could tell.”

“You asked him if he was a cop?”

“Does it matter? He would have lied. Anyway, so we drive directly to the Everblue and I’m starting to freak out a little because I’m thinking maybe he wants more than he’s told me, but he’s paid me up front and no matter what you think, I’m a professional and it felt too late to back out. I figured a motel was still safer than the bush, and I figured it’d be better than telling him I’d changed my mind. Some people don’t like that.”

“Where do you normally go, if not back to a motel?”

“Not far from where you picked me up. I generally just sort them out down a nearby alleyway.”

From what she said a few minutes ago about Calhoun’s preferences, an alleyway would have been far from sufficient. With the type of noise they needed to make, I’m surprised the motel room had been adequate. Then again nobody’s going to complain about the noise because people in twenty other adjoining rooms are also making it. There’s even a chance Calhoun booked the two adjoining rooms, just to make sure not as many people heard him having the time of his life.

I take the photograph out of my jacket pocket. “Are you sure it was the same guy as the photograph?” I ask her this without showing her the picture.

“Positive.”

“What does he look like?” I ask. I hold the picture facing away from her. I’m basically testing her memory, even though she saw it half an hour earlier.

“Like that,” she says, nodding toward the photo.

“Describe him.”

“Huh?”

“Describe him. Tell me what he looks like.”

“Well, he was wearing a white shirt. Light-brown sports jacket. Black trousers.”

“Not what he was wearing, bitch. .”

“Hey.”

“Tell me what he looked like.”

“Don’t call me bitch,” she says.

“Just answer the fucking question.”

“Fuck you.”

Where is all this coming from? Why the sudden hostility?

I open the briefcase. Take out a knife.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“Listen very carefully, bitch, because I don’t have time to mess around. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m going to start cutting you up. By the end of the night nobody is going to pay shit to screw you. The only way you’ll ever score another client is if you’re wearing a paper bag over your head.”

I study her face, waiting for a reaction. I’m expecting surprise, right? Or for her to even be stunned. Scared maybe. But she starts yawning. When she finishes she puts the cigarette back into her mouth and sucks in another mouthful of cancerous smoke, like she doesn’t even care. Becky has obviously been threatened before.

“You think you scare me?”

Yes. Yes, I do think I scare her. I tell her this.

“You like that?” she asks.

“Huh?”

“Scaring people.”

“It’s what I do.”

“Oh.”

I’m holding the knife so the blade is pointing toward her. For the first time, I’m beginning to doubt that I’ll use it. There’s something about her I’m starting to like. No, I’m not going soft, and I’m certainly not going to propose to her, but I’m starting to wonder if it’s really necessary to cut her open.

I’m not sure how to carry on, which is probably what she wants.

“So what are you going to do with this information?” she asks, ignoring the knife.

“What’s it to you?”

“I’d think a man in your position would be a bit friendlier.”

A man in my position. What position? I’m the one with the knife. She’s going nowhere unless I allow her to. What she doesn’t understand is that my threat is no empty one, unlike those made by the losers she’s screwed.

I consider apologizing, but don’t want to.

“I think he killed somebody,” I confess.

“Jesus, you sure?” she asks, no doubt thinking he could have just as easily killed her.

“Pretty sure.”

“You think he killed Lisa Houston?”

“Who?”

“Lisa Houston.”

I have to think about it for a few seconds, and then it comes to me. “You mean the pro from a week or so ago?”

“Yeah.”

I glance back at the door into the hall, remembering Lisa carrying my briefcase for me on the way, then I imagine Lisa being carried on her way out. “I think so.”

“You’re saying a cop killed her?”

Sure. Why not? There’s nothing she can do with the information. “That’s the way it’s looking.”

“Unbelievable.”

“You knew her?”

“We all know each other, honey.”

“You liked her?”

“Couldn’t stand her. Didn’t mean I wanted her dead, but since she is, I guess I’m happy about it.”

“Happier than Lisa, anyway.”

“Huh. I guess you’re right.”

I am right. I’m in the ideal position to make a solid comparison. “So what can you tell me about him?”

She gives me a detailed description. Nails him to a T.

I show her the photograph for the second time. She confirms it’s him. In a matter of maybe an hour, I’ve narrowed my list down to one suspect. Detective Robert Calhoun. Father to a dead boy. Husband to a disappointed wife. Partner to his morbid desires.

We talk for a bit more. I put the knife back into the briefcase and close down the lid. She doesn’t look relieved to see it gone. It’s like she never even cared. Just sits there, sucking on her cigarette and talking. And thinking about her money. I’m picturing my two grand in her purse. I don’t want her to have it anymore. I glance at my watch.

“Getting late, honey?”

I look up at her. “Yeah.”

I still have plenty to do tonight, including picking up the cat.

“So now what?”

I shrug. If I’m not going to get my money back, I may as well get my money’s worth.

“Is there anything you would like to do?” she asks.

I nod. I have aspirations. My life is full of things I’d like to do.

“Yeah? What?” she asks.

“Well, I suppose we could make use of the bedroom.”

But I don’t feel like making use of her, let alone the bedroom. The clown clock with the big moving eyes keeps looking at her, then at me, then at her again. All I feel like doing is going home and hitting the sack. I yawn. Wipe my fingertips at my watering eyes.

“Maybe I’ll take a rain check.”

“You sure?” she asks.

“Positive.” I stand up and grab my briefcase.

“Sure thing, sugar. You ever want to do this again sometime, feel free to call me.”

I turn off the lights on the way out. I don’t lock the front door behind me. It’s stopped drizzling and the wind is cool. Easily the coldest it has been all year. People are all inside, wrapped up in sheets and blankets. In their dreams, people like me are chasing them. Drops of water reflect the streetlights off leaves and fences and my car for the evening.

We head for town. I can’t be bothered making conversation and she doesn’t seem that eager either, so I turn on the radio. There’s some crappy song on, but I don’t care enough to change stations. “Where do you want me to drop you off?”

“Wherever.”

Should I or shouldn’t I? I still don’t know. Killing her will get me my two thousand dollars; letting her live still offers her up as help should I need any more information. It’s nothing like the dilemma I had at the gay guy’s house, but it’s still a dilemma. What would God want me to do? He’d probably want me to smite the whore, but she’s too likable for that.

I pull into an alleyway between a couple of shops, the headlights picking out dozens of cardboard boxes, chunks of white Styrofoam, and bags of trash. There are small puddles that have rainbows in them caused by exhaust fumes. I smile at her, lean over, and open the door like a gentleman. This woman has narrowed my list down to one suspect, and for that I’m truly grateful. She smiles back at me, and thanks me for a pleasant evening.

“You’re welcome,” I say, and thirty seconds later, after her body lands on the cold concrete with a slight thump, I tuck the two thousand dollars into my jacket pocket. I wipe the knife clean on her short skirt, then lean back into the car.

Always the gentleman till the end.